


The Deconstruction of Sakusa Kiyoomi

by Crollalanza



Series: The OMG THEY WERE OLYMPIC ROOMMATES! series [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Beginnings, M/M, Olympics, Timeskip, omg they were roommates!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26796418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Discovering he would be rooming with Ushijima Wakatoshi for the Olympics primarily fills Kiyoomi with relief he won't be sharing with one of his Jackals' teammates. But the relief gives way to apprehension, which is stupid because what does Kiyoomi have to be apprehensive about?
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: The OMG THEY WERE OLYMPIC ROOMMATES! series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989751
Comments: 20
Kudos: 128





	The Deconstruction of Sakusa Kiyoomi

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-Da. I wanted to explore this ship because I'm fascinated by the fact they found each other at various national competitions and the rivalry has kept Kiyoomi going. They are also blooming hard to write, but wow, worth it ... I hope.

He hadn’t expected this to be a part of his job, and certainly hadn’t even contemplated the delicate intricacies, but as Iwaizumi Hajime put down his pen, having crossed out a name and inserted another for the umpteenth time, he pronounced himself satisfied … or at least as satisfied as he could ever be when dealing with this bunch.

Typing it up, he refused to use the back space. This was it. This was now set in stone and none of them could change it. The best of all possible solutions. Huffing out his breath, he attached it to an email:

 **Subject:** Room Sharing.

 **From:** Iwaizumi H

 **To:** Japanese Volleyball Team

And hit send.

“And if any if you fuckers argue with me, you can warm the bench for the whole damn tournament,” he growled.

***

Sakusa Kiyoomi wouldn’t have dreamt of arguing. He’d been a touch surprised at the room assignment, expecting to be housed with his cousin, but his overwhelming feeling was one of relief that Iwaizumi-san hadn’t assumed he’d want to share with any of his Jackal’s teammates.

Overwhelming relief? Maybe not. He considered carefully. Seventy percent relief, ten percent surprise and that left twenty percent something else, something that felt like apprehension.

At least, he thought it was apprehension because what else could explain the flutter and plunge in his gut when he’d seen the name. Which was stupid because it wasn’t as if he were being asked to share with a stranger or someone with disgusting habits. He would be sharing with the one person who understood, who wouldn’t laugh at his routines, his need for everything to be _just so_ , or steal his toiletries. 

Kiyoomi was satisfied. He’d be able to focus on his regime and the games ahead and not have to concern himself with whatever chaos subsumed the others (which it would, he knew). Ushijima Wakatoshi was assiduous and diligent, just as Kiyoomi was.

 _Uptight, you mean,_ Motoya had teased and laughed at the reproving scowl on Kiyoomi’s face.

Any nerves or apprehension he might have harboured had dissipated after the first night. Following a team meal, where Kiyoomi had placed himself as far away as possible from the louder elements, he found himself next to Wakatoshi and opposite Ojiro-san, who might not have been as stoic, but was certainly trying to distance himself from his former Inarizaki teammate.

Wakatoshi and Ojiro began a conversation comparing training regimes and Kiyoomi listened in, not offering an opinion but soaking up the information like a sponge.

“I read your father’s book,” Ojiro said. “I had knee problems in the past, but his advice is invaluable.”

“Mmm, it’s good.”

“Did you decide to change your spike action because of that? Were you worried about an injury?”

Kiyoomi watched Wakatoshi, waiting for the answer.

“It was hard to improve on the previous action. I didn’t want to stand still.”

“Is that why you’ve moved abroad, too?”

A faint smile glimmered on his face. “Yes. Probably. The challenge is everything, don’t you think?”

It was Ojiro’s turn to consider. “I guess. Maybe I’m too attached to home. I’d miss a lot. Do you get homesick?”

Wakatoshi took his time before answering, swallowing some water first. “I attended a boarding school from the age of twelve, so there’s not much home to miss.” He didn’t sound remotely bitter, simply stating facts, but Ojiro shifted uncomfortably. Wakatoshi forestalled any apology, adding, “I missed one or two rivalries, but it’s a team game, so the opposition wherever you are is a rival.”

Ojiro’s eyes flickered to Kiyoomi as if remembering only in hindsight that he was there. “What about you, Sakusa-kun? Do you have any particular urge to play abroad?”

He shook his head, noticing that Wakatoshi was staring at him too, but before he could murmur out an answer, Yaku Morisuke wandered down to their end of the table, rolling his eyes at something Bokuto was yelling, and began quizzing Wakatoshi about the Polish league.

***

Ushijima Wakatoshi practised yoga. This surprised Kiyoomi, yet he didn’t know why because why shouldn’t he? But for some reason it did. Or maybe it wasn’t surprise at the activity, but that he practised it every night before he went to bed, and every morning before his shower. He’d averted his eyes during the first week, or made himself scarce, but today he stayed. They’d played their last match in the first round pool, qualified for the quarter finals, and hearing the celebrations outside in the corridor Kiyoomi wasn’t overly fond of leaving the room.

Wakatoshi was on the floor, palms flat, as he lifted his upper body and stretched.

Wondering how Wakatoshi looked somehow bigger when prone, curiosity overcame him. “Was yoga part of the training regime at Shiratorizawa?”

“No.” He arched his back, staring up at the ceiling.

His tee shirt gaped exposing a tanned torso, which Kiyoomi thought strange because wasn’t Poland a cold country?

Wakatoshi exhaled. “Iwaizumi introduced me to it. In California.”

“Oh?”

He knew they were both from Miyagi, but Iwaizumi hadn’t been an alumnus of Shiratorizawa. “You visited him?” he asked, puzzled.

Wakatoshi held the pose then walked his feet up until he was now an inverted ‘v’. “I visited my father,” he said. “Hajime was studying there, but I hadn’t known that at the time.”

“And he taught you yoga?”

“Not taught. I joined him at a class on the beach. I found it was good not just for flexibility, but for clearing the mind. I could show you, if you like.”

Kiyoomi blinked, pondering why he needed to have his mind cleared when all it took was focus. And although it might have been rude, he continued to question him. “You were distracted by something, Wakatoshi-san?”

 _Or someone?_ came the unbidden thought.

“My spike action was still causing issues back then.”

Sitting up on his bed, he let his legs dangle over the side. “Was it _really_ for the challenge that you wanted to change it? Couldn’t you have honed it instead?”

“Which is what you’d have done,” Wakatoshi stated. “I _am_ a better player now, Kiyoomi.”

“I’m not disputing that.” He sucked in his breath, intrigued but daunted. “Was it hard?”

“Yes.” The answer was blunt, but Kiyoomi didn’t think he was offended by the question. Then Wakatoshi stood up straight and rolled his shoulders before inhaling deeply, the sign he was finished with his routine. “The temptation to revert back to the original was strong, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” he said, then gave a little smile as he sat on his bed. “Or as my friend Satori would say, ‘You gotta melt the chocolate first’.”

“Is that Tendou Satori?”

“Yes. You remember him, I’m sure.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard he’s abroad,” Kiyoomi replied, not adding that he’d watched a programme about him, only once he’d heard Wakatoshi was going to appear.

“He’s a chocolatier in Paris. He breaks up the chocolate, melts it all down and then creates sculptures which are …” He chuckled, sounding fond. “Out of this world.”

“And that’s what you did? Broke up your technique and created something else.”

“I prefer the word deconstructed,” Wakatoshi replied wryly. “But, yes, that’s what—.” A rallying cry outside interrupted him. “I presume you’re not joining the others.”

“On their sightseeing trip?” Kiyoomi shook his head. “I was born here. I hardly need Bokuto-san’s guided tour. Are you going?”

“I was based here for four years. I will take advantage of the relative silence at least until they return.” He reached for his pyjamas. “This week has been interesting.”

“In what way?”

“Us playing on the same team. In the past I’d always wanted to beat you, Kiyoomi-kun.”

“Me, in particular?”

He considered and inclined his head. “Mmm. It doesn’t happen often. I’m usually only interested in beating the conglomerate team over the other side of the net, and not the person, but you and later Hinata.”

“Hinata?” That stung!

“You were a rival, whereas Hinata was an irritating fly I wanted to swat.” He chuckled again. “I grossly underestimated how fast he buzzed. That’s not anything I ever did with you, Kiyoomi-kun. You played well today.”

He had. He knew that, and several of the other players had noticed too and commented on his game, but hearing the compliment from Wakatoshi, who rarely made any observations out loud, made him wriggle his toes and furl up his fists as he attempted to prevent a faint flush on his cheeks. “Thank you.”

 _It’s because he’s your closest rival,_ he told himself. _The one player you’ve always aspired to be like._ “I—”

But Wakatoshi had walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

(‘You’re peas in a pod,” Motoya had once told him.

‘What? Peas?’

‘It’s an idiom,’ Motoya replied, sighing. ‘You and Ushijima-san are so alike it’s hard to tell the difference.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’

‘Nah. It’s kinda reassuring to know you’re not the only oddball, Oomi.’)

There was noise in the corridor at midnight, quickly hushed by Yaku-san, but the doors opening and shutting dragged Kiyoomi back to consciousness. One of his earplugs had fallen out and he frowned as he groped around his pillow to retrieve it. Across from him, Wakatoshi was lying in his side, his top sheet half discarded. Through a chink in the blinds, moonlight crept through, highlighting the curve of his body and softening the ratio between his shoulders and waist. Turning to the window, Kiyoomi tweaked the blind, plunging them both into darkness, and then lay on his back trying to empty his mind so he could sleep.

It was rare for him to suffer insomnia, if this was indeed what was happening, even rarer when there was no match the following day. They’d had their debrief, discussed the next match, and all they had the following day was an afternoon practise session, having been told to rest up the following morning. Maybe that was the issue. Kiyoomi had no wish to socialise or relax with any of the others, and the Olympic village was crowded with other athletes, so there was nowhere to disappear to.

Wakatoshi let out a groan as he shifted in his sleep. Twisting onto his side, Kiyoomi stared through the darkness and wondered how deep his sleep was. If he stretched out his hand and touched him on the shoulder, would Wakatoshi wake?

_Or touch my fingertips to his face, tracing the strong granite jaw line._

_What am I thinking!_

In horror, he stared at his errant hand, withdrew it swiftly from the space between them, and hissed a breath through his teeth.

“Kiyoomi?” Wakatoshi murmured into the blackness.

 _What!_ _He’s awake? Did he see?_ Screwing up his eyes, Kiyoomi snuffled, then pressed his head right into the pillow in the hope it would give the impression he was asleep.

“Nice receive,” Wakatoshi continued, then with another groan, he slumbered again.

All was quiet, apart from Kiyoomi’s pulse thrumming through his body. He’d find somewhere tomorrow. Somewhere he could be alone. Maybe even go back to his parent’s house for the morning, join the others for the practice and …

He’d been on the side at one point in the game, swapping with Hoshiumi, and when Wakatoshi had served, the power rippling through his entire body, all Kiyoomi could do was stare, mesmerised not just by the action but by the intensity he brought to the court. An odd emotion had swept over him at that moment, one that was familiar, but so vague, he wondered if he’d imagined it. Like Déjà vu except grounded in a real memory. Lying in bed and hearing Wakatoshi breathe, it struck him now what the emotion was and where he’d felt it before: Spring High in his second year.

_I missed you._

He meant to wake early, slip out of the room and go for a run. He could call in on his parents (if indeed they were there) let himself in and fix his own breakfast. Relax in his yard; maybe practise his drills against the garden wall.

That was the plan.

Instead he woke to hear the bedroom door closing, and through bleary eyes, he saw Wakatoshi sweating as he pulled off his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

“Nine! I’ve overslept!” He never overslept.

“You must have needed it,” Wakatoshi replied, and stretched one arm across his chest. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join me, but you looked peaceful.”

“Join you?”

“I went for a run before the traffic got too bad.”

“I thought you liked to run alone.”

He nodded. “Usually, but that’s because very few can keep up.” Dropping his shirt into a laundry basket, he picked up his towel. “I must shower. Then ... uh … breakfast?”

He’s asking me? “Pardon?”

“As you’ve not eaten yet, perhaps we can take it together. It will be quieter than usual. We might even manage a conversation without being interrupted.”

In daylight, things were far less daunting, and the idea of escaping until the afternoon dissipated in the morning sunshine. “Uh… yes, I’d like that.”

When Wakatoshi emerged from the shower, towel around his hips, Kiyoomi slid into the bathroom, carrying not just his towel but his clothes for the day. He showered, ensuring the water was hot, and patted himself dry before dressing.

Wakatoshi was finishing up his yoga routine when he came out, so he sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes idly scanned the positions, and seeing Wakatoshi was about to arch his back to the ceiling, realised he was close to the end. But as he stretched, Wakatoshi also winced, and instead of holding the pose, he finished and clutched his shoulder.’

“Wakatoshi-san?”

The concern must have shown in his voice. Wakatoshi looked across at him. “I slept awkward. My neck is a little stiff. I thought the run would sort it out.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Mmm. I should find Hajime. He had this technique like acupressure. Small movements across the skin… fas-something.” He got to his feet. “I should find him.”

“Fascial Kinetics?”

“Uh… yes, that sounds like it. Do you know of it?”

“I studied it as part of my course,” Kiyoomi replied. “My degree is in Sports Science.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like me to try, Wakatoshi-san?”

He was removing his shirt already, glancing across at Kiyoomi before he’d actually assented. “Why not,” he said, and pulling a chair over, he sat astride it, his back to Kiyoomi.

His skin was warm from the shower and smooth too. As Kiyoomi laid his hands across his shoulders, he felt the depth of Wakatoshi’s muscles. There was what felt like a small knot at the top, which was where Wakatoshi had been gripping, but Kiyoomi left it alone, instead concentrating on moving his fingers across the muscles.

“The theory,” he muttered, “is that the small movements activate the nerves to promote healing.”

“Theory?”

“I’m not sure how effective it is for long term injuries, but Motoya said it helped when he trapped a nerve.” He squinted at Wakatoshi’s neck, tracing it with his fingers. “I don’t think you’ve trapped a nerve.”

“No, it’s just stiff,” Wakatoshi agreed and started to turn.

“Don’t move. Let me finish first,” Kiyoomi said, pressing his fingers across his back.

“You weren’t tempted to become a trainer like Iwaizumi, then?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to play pro.”

“The degree was your back up? Did you wonder if you’d make it?”

Was that a criticism? He pressed his thumb into his back harder than he meant to. “I decided the college route was as viable as turning pro direct from school,” Kiyoomi replied stiffly.

“Have I offended you, Kiyoomi?”

“Not at all.” He smoothed his hand down Wakatoshi’s spine and found the next muscle to press.

“I wondered, that’s all.”

“Injury happens even to the best of us,” Kiyoomi murmured a little later. “No matter what precautions we take.” Feeling a slight twitch under the skin, he pushed marginally harder. “My family were not keen on me becoming a professional.”

“Oh… I had no idea.” Wakatoshi flicked him a glance, grimacing when Kiyoomi ‘tsked’. “My family knew I’d join the V league as soon as I left school. It was never an issue. They might have been happier with me finding a back-up, but no one tried to dissuade me.” He was silent for a while as Kiyoomi continued, adding after a break, “Your parents have been to the games?”

“They were busy,” Kiyoomi replied, hoping he sounded neutral, but his fingertips stilled as they spanned Wakatoshi’s back.

_Concentrate._

Freckles dusted one shoulder blade.

_Concentrate._

“Have you finished?”

_Like a constellation._

“Uh… no … not yet.” Resuming the pressure, he slid his fingers up to the nape of his neck.

“You are conscientious,” Wakatoshi murmured. “In everything.”

He had a mole at the base of his hairline. Kiyoomi slipped his thumb over it. And then Wakatoshi quivered. _Almost_ unconsciously Kiyoomi bent forwards and pressed his mouth to his neck.

Time stopped. In horror, hearing a minute gasp, he sprang back and knew right then he had to bluff his way out of it, pretend he’d not done a thing, that his mouth had touched Wakatoshi’s skin by accident (it had, hadn’t it???) and not pouted onto it at all, he’d not tasted the slight soapy freshness of his skin, had not—

Employ a Miya Atsumu strategy of denial. However much he hated that thought, it had to be the right thing to do.

But then Wakatoshi took his hand, circling his fingers around Kiyoomi’s wrist, and the words of rebuttal blanked in his brain.

“My neck feels good,” Wakatoshi said, and turned to face him, his unblinking dark eyes staring at Kiyoomi.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

“What for?” His fingers were still encircling his wrist, and then he gently tugged Kiyoomi towards him. “What for?” he repeated.

“I shouldn’t…”

He could have pulled away. Certainly his wrists were flexible enough to break free from the tightest of cuffs, and Wakatoshi’s hold was soft like water, but his thumb tip was running along Kiyoomi’s ulna and he was staring at him, a small curve on his lips.

“You kissed me.”

“I’m sor—”

“Thank you.”

“Pardon?”

“I said ‘Thank you’,” he replied, his voice gentle.

“I… I … I … didn’t mean to. It w-was an accident. You don’t have to try and m-make me feel b-better.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?” He stared up at him and tightened his grip on Kiyoomi’s wrist. “I’m not sure I know how to make people feel better. I’m blunt. Satori tells me I’m obtuse to the point of rudeness.”

“What are you saying then?” Kiyoomi asked, his voice rasping out the question.

Wakatoshi held his gaze. “I’m no good at preambles, so here it is. I like you, Kiyoomi.”

“Oh.” Unsettled, Kiyoomi at last wrenched away.

“And … you don’t like me,” Wakatoshi stated. He stood up, reached for his shirt and pulled it on over his head then flexed his arms before turning around to render Kiyoomi breathless with a wry smile. “I apologise. I misread the situation. Satori tells me I do that a lot.”

As he walked to the door, reaching down to pick up a bag and his room key, Kiyoomi found his voice. “N-no… don’t go. Not yet. I…” He took a deep breath trying to calm the quake in his voice and the tremor in his hands as he got to his feet. “I also like you, Wakatoshi-san. I think. But I’ve not done this. I don’t understand or know how to—” He stopped himself before he tripped over his tongue, and gathered his thoughts. “Why now?”

Wakatoshi stayed by the door, leaning against it as he surveyed Kiyoomi. “It’s like being in a game when you see an opening between the blockers’ hands. I took my chance. Not ideal in the middle of a tournament, I know. When would be a good time, though? When we’ve lost a game, you’d think it was a consolation. After a win, too easy to dismiss as a heat of the moment thing. I don’t want that and I …” He sighed wearily. “I am over thinking this.”

“It’s kind of reassuring,” Kiyoomi mumbled. “You’re always so together.”

Wakatoshi took a step closer. “I _have_ missed you.”

“But… but…” He gulped. “This _isn’t_ volleyball.”

“So?”

His palms began to sweat, heat waving through his body. “I have no experience,” he yelped, his voice becoming shrill. “I’ve not been ‘close’ to anyone. Ever. I’m uncomfortable with other people. I—”

Wakatoshi frowned. “You are uncomfortable with me?”

“No… not you.”

“Good.” Inching closer, Wakatoshi sat next to him on the bed, reached for his hand and held it in both of his. “It _could_ be like volleyball.”

“Huh?”

“We all started somewhere, didn’t we? We practised, improved, honed, made it to Nationals, and now the Olympics.”

“B-but this is different. _I’m_ different. I’m ‘odd’. There is _nothing_ to hone because I have _nothing!_ No experience. No back up. No practise. No—”

“Hush.” Cupping Kiyoomi’s face in his hands, Wakatoshi dropped a kiss on his lips, drew back and waited. Unsure, but feeling an unexpected thrill thrum through his veins, Kiyoomi leant into him, and pressed his lips onto Wakatoshi’s mouth. A hair’s breadth of a pause, and then Wakatoshi kissed him back, lips prying Kiyoomi’s apart, as his fingers twisted in his curls. They lay down side by side on the bed, Wakatoshi still searching, his mouth drifting to Kiyoomi’s neck before reclaiming his mouth. Blood roared through his head, his heart thumped against his ribcage, and he gulped for air, for some sense of reality to cling to as he drifted through each soft caress. He was fragmenting, his mind leaving his body as his sense of self and everything he knew, shattered around him.

“This might be the first time I’ve seen you smile,” Wakatoshi said, his finger tracing Kiyoomi’s lips.

Closing his eyes tight, he mumbled into his neck. “I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

“But it is good?” Wakatoshi asked, consternation creeping in as he lifted himself away.

He swallowed, and drew Wakatoshi back to him. “It’s good. I feel as if you’re deconstructing me.”

Sliding his hand to Kiyoomi’s waist, Wakatoshi nipped his ear lobe. “Bit by bit, and as slow as you want.” Then as he pecked kisses on his jaw line, tracing up to Kiyoomi’s temple, he added, “We can hone later.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think this pair would give Iwaizumi no headaches whatsoever with the room arrangements, but watch this space for some more Olympic shenanigans. 
> 
> Fascial Kinetics is also called the Bowen Technique. My friend practises it and whilst I have no idea how useful it is for injuries, it has really worked wonders on me when I've woken up with a stiff neck.


End file.
